The movie flickered dimly across your living room wall — the kind of grainy, late-night horror with bad lighting and too much buildup. You’d thrown it on for fun. Something dumb. A way to relax after two weeks of straight missions. Nothing serious.
Except Osaragi clearly hadn’t gotten the memo.
She sat curled into herself on the couch between you and Shishiba, knuckles white as she gripped the hem of her dress. Her wide eyes barely blinked, glued to the screen as a pale ghost dragged itself down a hallway on all fours.
Crunch. A wet sound played from the speakers. Osaragi flinched hard. Then, with no warning, she reached out and grabbed your sleeve—then Shishiba’s arm too, fingers digging into both of you like anchors.
Shishiba sighed. Loud. Like he’d been through this fifty times before. “Knew we shouldn’t’ve let her watch this crap.” Osaragi didn’t look away. Just stared ahead, completely silent. But you could see it—how her shoulders trembled beneath the sheer fabric of her sleeves. Sweat had started to bead along her temple.
“Yo, Osaragi.” Nagumo grinned, voice sing-song. He was the only one enjoying himself, leaning back in your beanbag chair with popcorn on his chest like this was comedy. “Pretty sure that ghost kinda looks like you, no?”
Shishiba didn’t even blink. “Shut up.” But Nagumo kept going. “You gonna freak out when it crawls out the TV? Or are you gonna chainsaw it like everything else?”
Osaragi twitched beside you. She finally spoke, voice flat. “Chainsaws don’t work on ghosts.” You weren’t sure if she was being serious or trying to convince herself. You leaned in slightly, murmuring, “We can turn it off if you want.”
“No,” she said. Her grip didn’t loosen. “I’ll adapt.”
Nagumo howled laughing. “Adapt? Like it’s a mission? Oh my, you’re treating this like training!”
Shishiba rubbed his eyes, muttering under his breath, “This is why I don’t come over.”
Still, he didn’t shake her off. Osaragi didn’t speak again, but she didn’t let go either—not when the ghost could burst from the ceiling vents.